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Authors: Robin Blake

BOOK: A Dark Anatomy
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I released her, dipped my pen in ink and ran a line through her name on the paper. Some noise in the hall distracted me and I looked up to see Mallender's unwieldy form making its way
towards two unoccupied chairs. Meanwhile, I consulted my witness list. The next name was that of Woodley, but of course he would now be the subject of his own investigation.
Then came the squire. I looked up at him, sitting rigidly and silent beside his sister in the front rank of chairs. By contrast, he had been anything but immobile during the evidence of the two witnesses heard so far, fiddling and shifting restlessly about, his face set in a scowl. Knowing this would not be an easy passage of evidence, I braced myself and said, ‘Mr Brockletower. Come forward, if you please, sir.'
At this there was a collective sigh of satisfaction from the audience. This was the evidence, above all, that they had come to hear. This was the prurient peep into the life of the wealthy and powerful that they craved. For the next few minutes not a sound would come from them as they followed every nuance, every jot and tittle of the proceedings.
Brockletower took the oath in the acid manner of a schoolmaster reading a list of his pupils' misdemeanours.
‘Thank you, Mr Brockletower,' I said. ‘Now, please would you tell us when you last saw Mrs Brockletower?'
‘Morning of the 10th of March, Monday. I was leaving for York. She was preparing for her usual early morning ride.'
‘How long did you plan to be away?'
‘I intended to be back by the 17th, Monday.'
‘But you did not in fact return until the 18th?'
‘No. I made an unplanned visit to Settle on the way back, after sending my man home ahead of me.'
‘What was your business in York?'
‘None of
your
business.'
‘But it is this court's business. Was it to look at horses?'
‘You already appear to know, so why do you ask? Yes, it was.'
‘Only that?'
‘Only that.'
‘Not to meet the Archbishop of York?'
He looked startled.
‘How did you—?'
‘You did meet Archbishop Blackburne, did you not?'
‘Yes. Paid a call. Nothing unusual there. He's my relative. A matter of courtesy.'
‘Very well. Coming back to your wife for a moment, you have heard Mrs Marsden say that she was ill-tempered on that day, the day you were to return. Can you think why that may have been?'
‘No. I wasn't there.'
‘One would think she would be happy rather than angry on that day of all days … the day on which her husband was due to return home, after a week's absence.'
‘
Would
one? You speak for yourself.'
I took a deep breath. There was nothing for it but to plunge.
‘I must put it to you plainly, sir. Was your wife unhappy in her marriage, Mr Brockletower? Were
you
unhappy?'
The effect of my question was everything an expectant audience could hope for. The Squire of Garlick's face suddenly flushed with blood. He rose to his feet in a paroxysm of anger and brandished his fist.
‘That's an insolent question, by God! It is beyond all propriety. It is the question of a damned blaggard.'
He held the stance, with his fist upraised. The room had fallen utterly silent, as if even to breathe would be enough to staunch the flow of the drama.
‘Regretfully, I can only repeat it, Mr Brockletower,' I said. ‘Isn't that the real reason you went to York?'
‘Of course it was not!' Brockletower thundered.
‘Was not your journey in reality to seek the archbishop's advice?'
‘Advice? Advice? About what, sir?'
‘About—'
I never finished my sentence. At that moment the door of the room burst open and Fidelis's temporary assistant, the young painter George, burst in at a run. The door bounced off the wall and the bang brought the entire room out of its trance. Everyone craned round to see the cause of the disturbance, whispering and exclaiming in frustration.
‘Message!' George gasped. ‘Message for the coroner!'
He looked up and down the room, his cheeks strawberry red from exertion. He must have run all the way from Garlick. As soon as he spotted me he began striding down the room between the audience and the wall, his boots booming on the bare floorboards. Reaching the table he held out a folded paper on which I recognized the handwriting of Luke Fidelis.
‘You must come, Coroner,' he panted. ‘You must come at once, Doctor says.'
I took the note from his fingers. In the side of my vision I saw that Ramilles Brockletower had slumped back into the witness chair. He pressed his face into his hands and gave a groan as, slowly and deliberately, I began unfolding the paper.
 
 
I
READ:
Dear Titus,
 
Something utterly unforeseen has appeared, and
everything is changed. I urge you to adjourn and come
to the Ice-house. Adjourn until tomorrow at the earliest
because this extraordinary turn will require some
consideration. And come alone, except for George.
But come quickly! Luke.
I made no attempt to complete the suggestion I'd been putting to the squire in the witness-chair, but immediately stood up with Fidelis's paper in my hand and addressed the court. A contingency, I announced, had occurred that regrettably forced an adjournment until the next day. There was a brief flutter of comment. I ordered the jury to return at nine and (with faint hope of their compliance) to discuss the matter with no one in the meantime; the squire and other unheard witnesses I asked also to return; the public I cordially invited back; and Furzey I directed to lock the room as soon as it was vacated. Then I gave a final ring of my bell, abandoned my place, and strode out rapidly with young George scurrying along behind.
Everyone present had been awed at this sudden histrionic suspension of the inquest. As I rode out of the inn's stable yard five minutes later, with the apprentice painter sitting up behind, hardly anyone noticed our departure, so vigorously were they debating events as they spilled out of Wigglesworth's room and into the sunshine. So we headed off, neither questioned nor pursued.
‘So what is this, George? What has happened?' I asked as we cleared the village and took the road to Garlick Hall.
‘Doctor Fidelis says I'm not to tell, sir, but to let him.'
‘I must be patient, then.'
But the way in which I dug my heels into the horse's flanks was anything but patient.
 
Luke Fidelis was slight and, with his thin face and wispy fair hair, not a commanding figure in a physical way. But at this moment, standing in his bulky leather apron before the steps that led down to the door of the half-submerged Ice-house, he looked as grim and substantial as a slaughterman. Beneath his cool greeting I discerned enigmatic, inner puzzlement.
‘What in heaven's name is this, Luke?' I called as I sprang to earth. ‘Where are the guards? I hope you are not going to tell me we have lost Mrs Brockletower for a second time.'
I meant this to be jocular. His reply brought me up short.
‘I wanted the guards out of the way. They are down at the house drinking beer. And as for Mrs Brockletower, we have, in a way, lost her.'
‘Lost her? Luke, what has happened? Is the body
gone
?'
He shook his head.
‘No. It lies where you last saw it.'
‘Thank heaven. Don't joke with me.'
‘I do not.'
‘Then tell me what you mean.'
Fidelis shook his head.
‘I won't tell you. I'll show you. Come inside.'
We filed down the strait sunken passage between the two doors. It was no longer a novelty for me to enter the Ice-house, but I still felt the chill invading my soul as well as my clothing and skin.
I saw in the lamplight that the table was covered with the same horse blanket we had used when first bringing the litter and its burden here a week ago. The litter had been taken away. So had the long canvas holdall that Solomon had used to transport the corpse. But in a pile, roughly folded on top of an ice basket, I saw the red skirt, black bodice and assorted white underclothes that Dolores Brockletower wore, in a pile topped by the boots that Abel Plint had so admired. I found the sight of Dolores's clothing affecting in a way that was hardly rational. I glanced back at the table and realized that now the contours and outline of the thing beneath it were even more sharply and evidently those of a human being.
Luke took up his position on one flank of the table and motioned me to stand opposite, with the boy artist at the foot.
‘Be prepared, Titus,' he warned, taking hold of the edge of the blanket that lay above the head. ‘This is something I cannot explain.'
Slowly he drew down the blanket, first showing the mottled and glacial face. He gestured at it, as if in question.
‘This is her face,' I whispered. ‘Dolores Brockletower.'
‘Naturally,' Luke replied. ‘But wait.'
He continued to draw the blanket down, past the neck, wounded and black-gashed, the shoulders, and the breasts. These had perhaps lost some of their tone post-mortem, for they sagged to this side and that, and were mottled and marbled
by decomposition. Making no comment, Luke continued to draw the covering away from the ribs, navel-knot and belly, where, for just a moment, Fidelis rested. I contemplated the torso. There was no jagged, roughly sewn wound from breastbone to abdomen, such as had always previously appeared when such examinations were ordered.
‘You are playing with me, Luke,' I whispered again. ‘How can you have found anything? She is not cut open yet.'
Fidelis smiled thinly.
‘You say “she”. Who is “she”?'
‘This dead woman, of course!'
‘A dead woman? Judge for yourself!'
With something of an actor's flourish he swept the blanket entirely away, whirling it up and casting it aside in one movement to reveal the remains of Dolores Brockletower lying before us on the table, stark naked from head to foot.
‘Good God in heaven!' I cried.
I looked down in disbelief, and then up at the torso, and again down below. How shall I put this? At the fork of the legs was not what belongs to any woman. What we saw there was small and perhaps ill-formed. But it was, beyond dispute, that of a man.
It was indeed an extraordinary, unforeseen turn, and unforeseen is the raw head and bloody bones of legal epithets. Every lawyer knows this: random events are the sworn enemy of diligent casework. The higher your stack of precedents, the more vulnerable it is to toppling by the salvoes of chance.
‘You are the doctor, and the natural philosopher,' I said a few minutes later in the open air. ‘So what is it we have just seen in there – a male, or a female?'
After the astonishing revelation of the Ice-house we did not linger, but came out immediately, being careful to lock the door
behind us. I posed my question while sitting with my friend on a fallen branch that lay in a pool of sunlight between fruit trees. The spot was a little higher up the sloping orchard looking down over the Ice-house towards the yards, outbuildings and rear facade of Garlick Hall. I was grateful to be warmed by the sun after the severe jarring I had just received.
I would have been gladder still of the comfort of an answer to my question, but for once my friend was at a loss.
‘I simply cannot say,' admitted Fidelis. ‘I am helpless. I have seen many deformities in my time, but never one like this. A woman who is at the same time a man, a man that is also a woman. That is natural madness.'
‘When it's known that … this
person
was not as she seemed it will alarm the people, that's certain. They already suspect an irruption of evil here. Now it will only be confirmed. Is there no explanation in natural philosophy we can give them? Is this a freak of nature, or truly something outside nature, Luke?'
Fidelis took off his hat and rotated it thoughtfully in his hands.
After some moments he said, ‘It turns everything over, you see. If there were any two absolutes in this life, I would have said it was the separation of the sexes. Until now.'
I was struck by his manner. Luke Fidelis, who is usually so sanguine, and so precise, was no less confounded and confused by this than I.
‘Well, it resolves one puzzle, at any rate,' I said. ‘The entry in Dolores's commonplace book. It was not just the story of Mr Eustace that disturbed her, though it must have done so. It was also the question of sex and souls. She didn't know how to fit her own case into the system.'
‘What did she write? “Imagine then: my fear and pain”. She was afraid for her own soul, for its integrity.'
‘For its very existence.'
Of the three of us, it was the young artist who seemed the least perturbed. Having deposited himself at a few yards distance he had produced a sketching book and a piece of black chalk and was now absorbed in making a careful drawing of the Ice-house. I suppose his calm was natural, because as a stranger to the town he had no preconceptions of Dolores Brockletower in life. Having known her, seen her, accepted her as a high-ranking woman and a wife, it was hard for Luke and myself to discover at the flick of a blanket that she had all the time been a monster, a double-sexed mongrel, an affront to nature and decency.
‘We must appeal to someone who can pronounce on this definitively,' I said.
‘Definitive is a word in law, my friend, not in nature.'
‘Yet we must know what this means. We want an authority on the question.'
‘An authority? In this town? London or Edinburgh might offer us one, but there's no such person here!'
And then it burst on me, like a brainwave breaking.
‘No, Luke,' I said quietly. ‘You are wrong.'
I got to my feet and walked across to where the boy artist was at work. Crouching behind his shoulder, and squinting to sharpen my eyesight, I looked over his work. It was rough but extraordinarily like, the small sunken building appearing on his page in just proportion, and from just this viewpoint.
‘Now, I am told,' I said, ‘that you know someone in this town who should take a very particular interest in what is inside that Ice-house.'
‘Yes, sir. I was thinking just the same.'
‘Then we are agreed. But will he come out here, and view it himself?'
George shook his head decisively.
‘He never leaves his house. He might want to come, but he would not be able to, I think.'
Fidelis joined us now, and peered over my head in order to study George's work for himself. I turned to him.
‘We refer to old Dapperwick, Luke. He interests himself particularly in genitalia. Did you know? His library is lined with casts and bottled samples, I've seen them myself. If anyone can speak with authority on this sort of question, he can.'
Luke straightened his back and stretched his limbs. He seemed a little put out, as if I had questioned his judgement, or his knowledge of the world. Then, taking my arm, he drew me a little distance out of George's hearing and spoke through compressed lips.
‘I don't know Dapperwick, but have heard he's senile. Would he have anything useful to say on this?'
‘Yes, he is old, sick and reclusive,' I said, ‘but not entirely mad. He forgets the day of the week, but he remembers his grammar and rhetoric. I wish we could fetch him here to make an examination. But at the least we can go and talk to him about this.'
Fidelis rubbed his chin.
‘We can do better, Titus. I shall finish my examination – it's essential to look inside the body – and as I do so our young artist shall make drawings.'
‘Which we will take directly to the venerable doctor for an opinion. Excellent! What do you say to that, George?'
The boy, who had looked so withdrawn and passive in his work, now looked re-animated. He closed the book with a snap and rose to his feet.
‘All right,' he said. ‘I don't mind. I can start now.'
 
 
Leaving the surgeon and draughtsman to their work, I decided to stroll down to the yard and then up the path to the workmen's camp. I hoped to learn more about poor Solomon and his escapade with this out-of-the-ordinary corpse. I wanted to know how and why it was in his possession because I believed this would tell me who knew its secret, and what consequences that knowledge had had.
As I made my way up the path through the dense wood that rose behind the Hall, the trees were still dripping from the morning's rain as my nostrils filled with the spicy smell of wet humus and leaf-mould. I listened for the sound of laughing children echoing down from the camp. But I heard none and, on arriving at the clearing where I'd first talked with Solomon's mother, I found it was a camp no longer. The tents were gone, the shelters dismantled. The ring of stones that had enclosed the fire had been disarranged, some of them kicked away, while within it was only a mess of sodden embers. The stool the woman had sat on lay overturned, its three legs pointing to the sky. In just a few hours they had all packed and gone.
I picked up the stool by one of its legs, meaning to take it back down with me to the dairy, from where it had probably originated. But first I wandered about a little and soon, in a corner of the former camp, some distance from the fireplace, I found a long mound of freshly turned earth and lying on it, having already keeled over in the rain-softened soil, a roughly fashioned cross.

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